Post Mortum Drag
by MorningHell
Summary: [Exclusively Saw 1] Some can't take the pain, some can't take the absence thereof. Drama beats the hell out of melting your automaton brain with nicotine. Slash, Adam Faulkner x Lawrence Gordon. Songfic Style.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1:** **Same Old Smoke and Mirrors**

_Author's Note: I did it. I wrote it. Another one, because—don't resent me for this—I hated the last one. So this is Saw Adam/Lawrence slash take two. Completely unrelated to the first. Redux. As of yet unfinished. And it's all SONGFIC STYLE!_

* * *

Smoke. 

_Breathe it in and breathe it out_

Cloud. Veil. Haze.

i.e., something you couldn't see through. Twenty-twenty vision doesn't do you any good when you can only see as far as two inches of cigarette.

_And pass it on, it's almost out_

There once was a lunatic who captured a man named Adam Faulkner and put him in a cage to see if he would die. Adam only draws that parallel because he remembers the look on a child's face when they drop a mouse into their snake terrarium. The intent is for the snake to eat the mouse so that the child can observe a brutal act of nature. To see snake fangs spearing down on an oblivious animal, jaws crushing its bones, swallowing it down alive, and digesting it slowly. Because the snake only has two choices, really. Eat the mouse, or starve. Any creature confined similarly would act similarly. Aside from that, it's no fun if the snake doesn't bite. Then what are you supposed to do with the mouse?

Of course, Jigsaw's puzzle had been a little more evolved than that. Same brain, human element. Same schematics with the guise of some pseudo-philosophic, bullshit reasoning invented by a man who somehow managed to retain that sociopathic sliver of inhumanity that children are supposed to have grown apart from as they mature. A man who didn't like to get his hands dirty. And you have to be brilliant to keep your hands clean when it comes to death. He could be equated to a monster, but he wasn't. Adam won't call him a monster because monsters have power, and Jigsaw really had none. All he had was what he considered to be a novel idea. That's what he wanted the papers to say, wasn't it? What an original thinker. What an extraordinary human being.

_We're so creative, so much more_

_We're high above, but on the floor_

What a crock of shit.

Not that Adam has anything to boast about himself. He isn't original. He isn't unique. He's never been an extraordinary anything. Anyone—a monkey—could run his life just as easily as he. A monkey that smokes its weight in nicotine every day, but a monkey.

These days Adam gets out of bed, looks in the mirror, and says to his reflection, "Adam, you're a fraud." And then he lights up another stick, because he's been itching to since he opened his eyes.

_It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive_

_If you don't have it you're on the other side_

Adam isn't entirely certain whether or not his ordeal qualifies as a 'near death experience', whatever the hell that means. It wasn't like he was bled within an inch of his life. Someone said they were going to kill him. Wasn't that all? Once Adam accidentally jerked his elbow too hard and hit a friend in the face, who promptly replied, "Adam, I'm gonna fucking kill you for that!" Adam didn't consider that to be a near death experience either. Of course, in that instance, there hadn't been a chain around his ankle or a tape monotonously explaining to him why he deserved to die.

Adam thinks back to something he saw on TV one night about a free-range skier who got caught in an avalanche and was trapped for days under eighteen feet of snow. He lost six fingers and three toes to frostbite, but other than mild dehydration he had been fine. Later, on some interview about his incident, the man—Adam remembers an enthusiastic crackpot with a sun burnt face and dark sunglasses—raved to the camera about how much the whole thing changed his life for the better.

"I mean it was just some average day out in the snow, but suddenly there's eighteen feet of death sitting on top of me and I feel like a corpse. And the blood's rushing to your face and you arms and legs and you just wanna…just _scream_ but no one's gonna hear you! It's insane, it's like a rush, but you're dying, and I was just thinkin' '_Man_, is this it?' You make your peace with the man upstairs and everything, but then—then someone's diggin' you out of your grave…And I tell ya, realizing that you're alive after you thought you were dead already—it's like being _high_, it's like a _drug_." he then leaned very close to the camera, his sunglasses gone and his eyes wide with a psychotic half-smile on his face. "A _drug_."

_The deeper you stick it in your vein_

_The deeper the thoughts, there's no more pain_

_I'm in Heaven, I'm a god_

_I'm everywhere I feel so hot_

Adam had blown smoke at the screen in turn for the smoke being blown up his ass and changed the channel to watch some big-titted broad lounge by a pool in some D-grade action movie. Life is a drug? When was the high supposed to kick in?

_It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive_

_If you don't have it you're on the other side_

_I'm not an addict—maybe that's a lie_

Adam has moved on. He still does gigs—works three or four nights a week making a hundred or two a pop. Taking pictures of sleazy man-whores and corrupt business associates was really all he knew. He doesn't have any kind of phobia of taking pictures or holding his camera. He uses the bathroom every day and never makes the association, because when a he's gotta piss, he's gotta piss. He doesn't wake up with nightmares and think he's still chained to rusty, shit-covered pipes. He isn't afraid of the dark, or his apartment, or even his hall closet. There are few to no lingering voices. It's almost as though the whole ordeal hasn't made the slightest impact on his life.

Except that it has. Adam feels emptier now than ever before.

_It's over now, I'm cold, alone_

_I'm just a person on my own_

_Nothing means a thing to me_

There once was a lunatic who captured a man named Adam Faulkner, and tested him to see if he was worthy of the life he had abused. Adam hadn't passed the test, but he was still alive. Now what?

These days Adam gets out of bed, looks in the mirror, and asks his reflection, "Is this what I was supposed to be grateful for?" And then he takes another drag, because he's already smoking a cigarette.

_Oh nothing means a thing to me_

Last night he had met with a client who scraped for a whole month just to offer up one seventy-five for a job. Luke Alfred, a not-so-happily married forty-three year-old man who had arranged to meet with Adam in his garage where he was fixing up his truck engine. The moment Adam had stepped into the gritty, cluttered, dirt and oil stained garage, he felt a sick sense of familiarity. It was the first time he felt afraid again. Like maybe he was still being watched. Luke Alfred turned out to be a very normal guy—but so was virtually anyone else Adam did business with. He shook his hand, offered him a beer, and explained his situation to the best of his abilities. "Really," he confessed with shamed blue eyes, "…I just need a reason to divorce her. …I can't live like this anymore."

"Sure." Adam had said. What did he care? As long as he got paid. Luke suddenly launched into his life story from the moment his head was crowning and Adam politely tuned out. Usually all he needed was the name, face, and workplace. And his money, of course. A few weeks later, Luke would have a court case. He drank his beer quietly in the dim light of the dingy garage, his eyes traveling around in boredom at the walls and tabletops lined with tools, spare parts, food wrappers, and just plain shit no one needs but no one has the time to sort through and throw out. It was a little like his apartment, but also a little like…his eyes stopped on a slightly rusted hand saw leaning up on top of a particle board desk.

"Those things'll kill you."

Adam stared blankly into Luke's marginally wrinkled face.

Luke gestured to the cigarette that Adam hadn't realized he'd been lighting.

He looked down at it before putting it between his lips. "They'll have to get in line."

Sure they're not good for him, but what is? It sounds so melodramatic put that way, he thinks, but his personal drama isn't the point. Cigarettes satisfy him, calm his nerves, bring him back down to earth. Anyone who doesn't smoke doesn't understand.

_It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive_

_If you don't have it you're on the other side_

_I'm not an addict—maybe that's a lie _

Adam has the pictures stored somewhere in his red room. Luke was right—she was a cheating slut. They usually were. He sits on his bed and thinks about the paint peeling on his walls, because he has nothing else to think about. His brain cycles and rests, cycles and rests, and begs for the occasional smoke. It doesn't fantasize desires or even rue old memories anymore because they just don't seem to matter. After his last girlfriend left him, he had angrily tossed all her pictures into the trash. He only now realizes he missed one as he sees the corner of it poking out from under the bed, but he doesn't care enough anymore to throw it away. There are pictures all over this place anyway. Just because one is of someone he actually knew doesn't seem to make a difference now. And it never occurs to him that for all the hundreds upon hundreds of photographs in this apartment, not a single one is of himself.

"What does a voyeur see when he looks in the mirror?" mutters some voice from the past.

These days Adam gets out of bed, looks into the mirror, and tells his reflection, "Fuck you." Then he puts out what is already his third cigarette of the day.

So Adam is back to his old routine. He smokes, takes pictures, watches TV, sleeps, and smokes. Same old, same old. He doesn't know if picking up along this path again will get him killed—or kidnapped again. But that's mostly because he doesn't think. At this point nothing would surprise him anyway. Not even the sudden knock on the door, despite that fact that he has no idea who that could be. The knock doesn't faze him remotely. But when he shuffles himself to the door and swings it open to see a man he doesn't recognize, something knocks the wind out of him where he stands.

"Adam." Says the man in an earth-shatteringly familiar voice.

_Free me, leave me_

_Watch me as I'm going down_

Adam blinks, and stares, and says nothing. _Not interested._ He wants to say crassly and shut the door, but then he finally realizes who the man at his door is. Fucking Lawrence Gordon. The snake that wouldn't bite. After two months it's hard to recognize someone you only knew for a day, no matter how long you stared at their face or how many times you saw their picture on TV. But Adam hadn't really been paying attention to that anyway. He stares at the dirty blonde beginnings of Lawrence's sprouting beard and almost wants to laugh, but it doesn't really feel like a laugh-out-loud moment. "Oh. Hey." He says, as if he hasn't just been blow away.

Lawrence clears his throat and leans an arm against the doorframe in a casualness that strikes Adam as out of character. "You're not…busy…or anything. Are you?"

"No." Adam replies. He's still too caught up in wondering what's happening to bother to invite him in.

Lawrence doesn't take his eyes off Adam's face, as if something is very wrong with the younger man. It pisses Adam off. He wants Lawrence to explain what the hell he's doing here but he doesn't feel like he should actually have to ask. "_What_?" he demands.

Lawrence pauses, then shakes his head. "Adam, you…look like shit."

Fuck. Adam averts his eyes to an adjacent wall. How bad must he look that he puts that look on the face of a doctor? "Nice." He responds nonchalantly. "You look like a million fucking dollars."

Lawrence looks mildly embarrassed and self-consciously rubs his face. "Right. Sorry. I didn't mean…"

"What are you doing here?" Adam finally asks, but it sounds much angrier than he really is.

Lawrence swallows. "Sorry. Adam…should I le-leave?" He's behaving strangely. He looks like a wounded animal or something—not in its right mind. Then Adam smells the alcohol. …_Fuck… What a mess._

"…" Adam kicks the door open lazily and motions for him to enter.

Lawrence stares for a long while at the door in trepidation before stepping in. "I guess you're probably wondering why I'm here…"

"For starters, yeah." Adam replies as he flops down on his couch and picks up a magazine he's read a thousand times but never looked at. "Your wife kick you out after that drinking binge or something?"

"I've been drinking—I'm not drunk." Lawrence says sternly. He quickly softens up however, probably reminding himself that he's a guest. Like Adam really gives a fuck. "I wanted to see how you were."

_Took your sweet time._ Adam twitches just slight, then shrugs and continues to pretend he's reading an article.

There's an awkward pause. "Are you? Okay, I mean?"

Adam leers over. "Sure. Perfect." Isn't he okay? He has no problems paying rent. There's no shortage of liars and cheaters out there. He doesn't cry himself to sleep, cut his wrists, or swallow anti-depressants like some angst-ridden teenage attention whore. He moves, breathes, functions. What isn't okay about that? Why does he feel like he's lying?

_Free me, see me_

_Look at me_

"Good. That's good." Lawrence says with relief. "I was worried that you…That…well you told me that you lived alone, and I was just—"

"Look, it's a real noble gesture and all, but I don't need your emotional charity." Adam snaps. A long silence passes between them before he shakes his head and grunts. "You wanna sit down instead of standing there? I've got some beer in the fridge, you can tie one on or something…"

Minutes later they're sitting on the couch together drinking cold Corona and staring at a television that Adam thinks about turning on because he isn't sure he really wants to hear what Lawrence came here to say. Did his wife really kick him out? Or is he about to pour out the psychological damage he's been living with for the past two months, because Adam isn't especially eager to hear the problems of a man rich enough to be able to afford a therapist.

"I know it's been some time…" Lawrence starts. Oh goody, here comes the explanation. "And I was looking for you—I really was."

"How did you know I lived here, anyway?" Adam asks, because for some reason, this oddity hasn't occurred to him yet.

Lawrence seems reluctant to answer, so he eases the passage with another swig. "…I remembered…that you were a patient in my hospital." He pauses. "You know…_after_. So I dug up your file."

Adam shifts uncomfortably and crosses his arms as if he is very cold. "Great. So now you're stalking me."

"I'm not—" Lawrence looks over and catches the sarcasm, so he settles for a glare and shuts his mouth. It's another few minutes of wordless, dead air before Lawrence chances another look over. "Are you sure you're alright? …You look…Adam, when I met you, you looked as though you didn't have an ounce of fat on your body. And now you look like you must've dropped at least fifteen pounds."

Twenty, actually. He can't remember the last time he ate, but smoking kills the majority of his appetite, so it's not like he's hurting any. "What's your point?"

"That you aren't healthy." Lawrence's eyes clearly scan over the vast graveyard of cigarette cartons on the floors, tables, chairs, and furniture.

"Yeah, well, excuse me if I'm skeptical taking the word of a soused doctor." Adam brushes off the remark and grips his own beer violently by the neck.

_I'm falling_

_And I'm falling…_

Lawrence just shakes his head and doesn't comment.

He doesn't know how much longer Lawrence is planning to stay, but he hopes that it isn't much and that he finds the balls enough to come to a point. It's obvious that Lawrence is uncomfortable if not repulsed by Adam's cheap, messy living quarters, so what's making him stay here?

"Okay, so you found me." Adam relents back into conversation. "Now what do you want?"

Lawrence defends himself without becoming defensive, a trait Adam finds to be unattainable. "I…just wanted to see how you were doing."

Right. Adam mentally snorts. Same question, same answer. It's only been a matter of minutes, but this will never end if he doesn't end it. "Well as you can see, I'm just peachy. Anything else I can help you with Doc?"

Lawrence either refuses to take the hint or he's just an extremely stubborn man. "Are you seeing anyone?"

"What?"

"…I don't mean to be so personal, I was just wondering."

Adam gives him a long, resentful look and takes a drink. "You see any panties between the cushions?"

"Alright. Well what about pets? Do you have any?"

Adam can't quite find within him a response that expresses his frustration at such an arbitrary question. The answer is no, he's never had pets. He doesn't have the attention span for something that needs as much care as a dog, he would never remember feed something like a goldfish or any caged animal sitting on a desk all day, and he doesn't like cats—or, more aptly really, cats don't like him with his habit of petting things too aggressively. "What the fuck kind of questions are these?"

"I-I was just making small talk, I don't—" Lawrence stands up and begins to pace around with some difficulty on his gimp leg. "I don't know."

Adam meets his urge to yell in the middle with a pissed off smirk. "If you knew you were gonna have a mental breakdown, why did you come here to do it?"

"A mental breakdown? Is that what you think this is?" Lawrence stares down at Adam with panic—actual, real panic—something that he knows a man like Lawrence is not easily pushed to. But it deflates so quickly he almost wonders if he saw it at all. Lawrence chuckles, defeated. "Maybe you're right."

"Great." Adam replies as he sinks down even deeper into the couch. He can't remember ever having wanted a cigarette so bad since…hell, breakfast. But he presumes that he doesn't want to see whatever look on present company's face may come about from lighting one up. On second thought, fuck it. It's his house. Besides, he doesn't have to look at his face. Adam snatches a half empty carton off his table and pounds one out. "There something you're actually looking to say or what?" he grinds out as he cups a hand over the flame of his lighter and brings it to his face.

_It is not a habit, it is cool, I feel alive, I feel…_

_It is not a habit, it is cool, I feel alive_

Somehow Adam can actually hear the despairing frown, but whether it's at his statement or his current actions he can't say. He hears an abject thump of hollow prosthetic on the floor and imagines some silent, dramatic sigh. "I've been thinking about the uh…the day we met." He enunciates with morbid sarcasm. "A lot, actually."

"Really." Adam deadpans. He grits his teeth when he can feel Lawrence staring at him. He must be picturing the poor recluse Adam, cowering alone in his apartment with nothing but the nightmares to keep him company.

"In fact, lately it's all I think about. Lately it's…_all_ I think about…" he trails off. Clearly the good doctor isn't quite as eloquent when he's drunk. Scratch that, 'been drinking'. "You were right about Allison."

Adam carefully drags his eyes up to Lawrence's and tries to remember why that should be. "She kicked you out?"

"I don't know if it happened in as much simplicity, but we aren't living together anymore."

The question Lawrence refuses to ask is obviously becoming dire. Adam has a funny feeling that it's going to involve him in some way. "Are you serious? Okay…so what, you need a drinking buddy? Someone to pat you on the shoulder and give you some fish-in-the-sea speech? When are you moving?" Adam's counter-questions are a jumble of thoughts, both frustrated and curious and beginning to suspect that Lawrence is asking him for a place to stay the night.

"I'm already gone." Lawrence mumbles and rubs his brow. "A hotel on 27th. They don't clean the sheets well and their walls are poorly insulated. The price is alright. I suppose."

Previous theory thwarted, Adam remains at a loss. He clears his throat. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Lawrence says mechanically.

If Lawrence is looking for pity, he isn't going to find much, but he has to have known that to begin with. It's clear by his refusal to elaborate that he isn't here to talk about family matters, either. Adam is supremely tired of this guessing game. "If it's fine, what's with the drinking?"

"Is that a joke?" Lawrence asks blankly, like he really doesn't know.

"It's a god damn question. You asked me if I had any _pets_." Adam flips up a hand and takes a few more neurotic hits.

"Right." Lawrence cracked a fleeting smirk and shook his head, setting down his beer and preparing for more awkward pacing. "I just don't know how to ask this, and I…well I'm pretty sure I already know the answer."

"Not sure enough I guess."

Lawrence's sighs and stares at the wall for a while. "I really admire you Adam. I mean that."

That one floors him. Where did that come from—and why? People have looked on him with a hell of a lot of things before, but admiration has definitely never been one of them. What self-respecting surgeon would deign to value any trait of someone who hadn't even made it through community college?

Lawrence continues whether or not he's making sense, his hands supporting him behind his back against the back of the couch. "You're making it alone. I'm not. I don't think I've ever really been able to, but I know that now, for damn sure, I can't. Maybe you're used to it or maybe you're just braver than I am, but I could really use some of that courage."

Adam feels slightly guilty, because really he's just a shell, and Lawrence doesn't know that. There's nothing in him—sure, no fear, but no courage either. And no empathy. "Oh." He croaks, because he doesn't know what's polite to say back to that and that's as close as he gets.

"I don't…if…I don't know if you ever have trouble paying rent or something. I wouldn't. It's just, um…" and then Lawrence snaps, and falls back into his nature of brutal honesty. "I can't live alone. I've tried. It's not because I'm lonely, it's…I've become a real fucking coward. You know?"

Adam nods, but it's a lie.

"Why am I asking you? Isn't that what you want to know?"

Adam looks around at his walls as if they will assure him that yes, he is currently witnessing crazy, and shrugs.

"Because you're the only person I know." Lawrence responds with an empty drop in his tone. Silence floods the room so fast it feels like a fist to Adam's chest, but he can't break it because his mind won't supply him with the usual snide comment or question. Lawrence shakes his head once he sees this lack of a reply and looks down. "Pretty pathetic, isn't it?"

"What, the being in your forties and having no friends thing? Who fucking cares?" Adam watches ash fall onto his pant leg. "Friends are just people who can make fun of you on a personal level. People are a God damn plague."

"That's a little more bitter way of looking at it, but it's not because of antisocialism that I don't have friends. It's because of self-importance. My own… meaningless self-importance."

Feeling that they're getting to close to the therapy part, Adam rolls his eyes in a purposefully cold gesture. "What is that, a fancy way of saying you're a dick?"

"Pretty much." Lawrence agrees before pausing. "Does that mean you don't have anyone you're close to either?"

"No. Unlike you, I'm not a sad loser." Adam bites back. "I have booze and nicotine. We party all the time."

Lawrence stares so miserably at a beer bottle that Adam suddenly wants to apologize profusely. "Right. Of course. I should…get going."

Adam makes a move to get up, but doesn't follow it through. Even though he's been waiting for Lawrence to leave and get rid of this uncomfortable situation, he somehow doesn't expect to hear him say that. "If you have to." He allows in a small passive voice. "You should drop by again sometime." Which is a stupid thing to say, especially when he hasn't even bothered to confront Lawrence's strange request.

"Okay. So just…think about it, maybe. Maybe not…" Lawrence shakes his head again and reaches for the door. "Thanks for the beer. Here's my card in case you want to talk." He rifles into his pants pocket and places a stiff white card face down onto the nearest surface without looking at it. "I'll see you."

Adam doesn't say goodbye. He's still getting used to the idea of this conversation taking place at all, let alone ending it. But before his brain catches up, Lawrence is gone with nothing but a fancy business card lying slanted on top of a table nearby. His cigarette is almost completely burnt away, and so he reaches for a new one.

_It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive_

_If you don't have it you're on the other side_

_I'm not an addict—maybe that's a lie_

These days, Adam gets out of bed and can't bring himself to look into the mirror anymore. And by that time he's already finished his first pack.

_I'm not an addict_

_I'm not an addict_

_I'm not an addict_

* * *

Song: "Not an Addict" _by_ K's Choice 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 - Kubler-Ross: Stage One**

_Sorry this took so long, my internet's been out for a week. And I wasn't happy with this chapter so I spent a lot of time poking at it. I'm still not satisfied, but if I don't leave it alone I'll never progress, so, here it be. Thank you all very much for reviewing! I'm thrilled to see that so many of you are interested in my little re-write here. It's sort of the version I wanted to write. The other one was long, boring, and too in-the-moment and chaotic. And long. Enjoy, please!_

* * *

He's knows he's going to say no. Who in their right mind would move in with a total stranger? With a ten year difference between them and nothing in common at that. On top of which the man clearly has issues to say the least. And if there's anything Adam is bad at, it's trying to deal with emotional problems. He could never even sort out his own and he is not about to deal with someone else's. If he has any sense he'll tear up that card and hope good old Doctor Gordon forgets his address. Because he's going to say no, and he wants to stop feeling bad about that fact. 

_It seems like every day's the same_

_And I'm left to discover on my own_

Part of him—most of him, actually—hates Lawrence for traipsing back into his life and making things the way they are. Now, instead of a zombified, trudging crawl of existence in which he feels nothing, he has to stop and figure out some way so as not to feel guilty. Not that he knows why he should feel that way at all. It's not his responsibility, and wouldn't anyone opt for being alone as opposed to being with someone who looks like they could fall apart on you at any moment? It makes sense. But he still feels guilty, which only frustrates him more. Lawrence Gordon is a rich, handsome, charming, sickeningly perfect socialite—who is he to come barging in and ask something of a man who has comparatively nothing? He thinks he's angry at him for that, but in reality he just hates the man for breaking the comfort of his monotony.

_It seems like everything is gray_

_And there's no color to behold_

So Adam recants as best he can, trying to find some reason that he should feel fine about his decision. They aren't friends and they never were; they didn't get along that well to begin with the first time they met so what would be the logic in trying to live together? And come to think of it, the man had _shot_ him. Granted, the situation may have warranted drastic measures, but the fact is that there is currently a bullet wound scar in Adam's shoulder and he doesn't feel entirely comfortable with that. So what is there to feel so bad about? If it weren't for Lawrence, Adam probably would have never been kidnapped in the first place. But just thinking that stings his conscience so bad he can taste bile in the back of his throat. Why did the stupid fuck have to save his life? Adam sighs a deep, irritable sigh and lights another cigarette, dropping the old butt in yet another emptied beer bottle.

But on another level, he doesn't want to see Lawrence again because he just wants to leave it alone. He doesn't want to be reminded of the ordeal every day, he doesn't want to think about Jigsaw's little game of coyote ugly every time he looks at Lawrence's face. Never mind the fact that he's already reminded by his own. But that's no reason to admit that while the ordeal hasn't reduced him to a terrified, neurotic crybaby, it _has_ consumed his life.

_They say it's over and I'm fine again—yeah_

_Try to stay sober, feels like I'm dying here_

Adam's day is different than usual. He doesn't stare out the window and smoke, or stare at the TV and smoke, or walk down to the nearest convenience store to buy some smokes. Something seems to prod him in his scarred shoulder and remind him that he is, in actuality, a tangible part of his world. He sits and turns on the TV and flips through the channels only to find that barely any of them are working. After various attempts to fix the set—most of them including his fist—he realizes that he hasn't paid his cable bill since he came home from the hospital. His stomach growls and he gazes into his refrigerator in muted surprise once he sees the only things in it are a carton of eggs, a jar of jam, and a gallon of milk three weeks expired. His cupboards share equal destitution. So with no other option, Adam grabs his coat and ventures farther out of his apartment than he's been in months in search of something to eat.

Even though he hasn't been beyond the gas station half a block from his complex since he got home, he doesn't feel like going much farther. His lethargic subconscious is still pulling at his limbs, trying to keep him home and if it can't do that, keep him as close to it as it can. Adam sits down at some shitty nearby diner—he hates that word, it sounds so old-timey—and orders a chaotic combination of a sandwich and fries, a plate of French toast, and a side of mashed potatoes with a Coke. He eats like his life depends on it, and halfway into his meal he thinks that maybe some of his irritability towards life can be attributed purely to hunger. For the first time in months, smoking is not the indulgence he's focusing on. When he's done he walks home and climbs the walls.

His brain is alive now, and it's eating at his steady resolve like fly puke on butter. He's aware of everything his robotic demeanor has been blinding him too since he's been home. On his way to the bathroom his eye catches the forgotten photograph of his ex girlfriend sticking out from underneath his bed and he picks it up, crumpling it into his fist and tossing it in the trash. Adam paces now instead of sitting listlessly on his couch. He also picks up the strange habit of talking to himself every time he turns around. He verbally labels the things he's picking up or using in a sing-song tone and makes sarcastic comments at the television as if someone will appreciate them. He calls the cable company to reactivate his service and draws out the conversation for an exceptionally long period of time, and when it threatens to come to a close, he makes up some story in a bizarre moment about how he tried to call earlier only to be chewed out by a staff member who was obscenely rude. Twenty minutes and one manager intervention later, Adam receives an apology and HBO free of charge.

He wonders if maybe Lawrence Gordon wants to live with him just so he'll have someone to talk to. He has to admit, having someone there might distract his mind from devouring itself. At least it would keep him from talking to himself. But what's the difference? He's going to say no.

_And I am aware now_

_Of how everything's gonna be fine one day_

_Too late, I'm in hell_

_I am prepared now, seem's everyone's gonna be fine_

_One day, too late; just as well_

He's going to say no because it's still crazy, and he won't concede to crazy. He's not going to be one of those people who succumbs to the crisis mentality by doing something outrageous. He's going to keep on keeping on, live his life and die like a normal fucking human being.

But the problem with life is that it goes on. And on and on and on and on—and  
Adam feels like he's already losing it. He's somehow lost his ability to zone out, which is affecting his nerves, his routine, even his job. He feels like a sober addict, and he hates it.

_I feel a dream in me expire_

_And there's no one left to blame it on_

_I hear you label me a liar _

'_Cause I can't seem to get this through_

He's offered three gigs that week, all of which he turns down, telling himself that he's too tired. It's a pussy-footing lie. If he's really tired it's only because he's pacing the floor day and night, smoking pack after pack of cigarettes, buying cases and cases of beer every time he goes out and not drinking a single one. The last time he brings a case home, he realizes his fridge is full and nonchalantly plops in onto the counter instead, then wanders out to his couch and collapses in front of his cable-renewed television. Old movies. Talk shows. Court TV. There's never any porn on when you need it. The variety of channels annoys Adam just as much as the previous lack of them. He has a brief fantasy of dropping the television out the window just to give into his metastasizing neurosis, but with his luck he'll probably kill some old woman on her way to church. He almost does it anyway. But then he stops on a passing news channel when he's suddenly staring at his own face.

He's angry. He doesn't know why—he's seen that picture of himself a thousand times since the news caught wind of Jigsaw's surviving victims. He's bloody and dazed and has this weird look on his face like the photographer is his mother who's just walked in on him with a bag of weed. "…nately still have no solid leads as to the whereabouts or identity of the Jigsaw killer." Is the phrase he catches. And despite the reporter's rambling continuation, it's clear that it really is the only thing they've brought him up to say at all. Why do they need his photo just to say that? He isn't a poster boy; he doesn't remember signing any kind of release saying that they could use his face to promote some sick story for channel six news. He never asked to be a part of this ordeal in the first place so what god damn right do they have to keep dragging him back to it? Show Doctor Gordon's picture—he's the _real_ story, isn't he? Or is he rich enough to buy his picture from the public view? _Fuck that prick!_ Adam chucks the remote at his bloody, stupid face and the casing of the device shatters, sending bits of black plastic and batteries in all directions.

_They say it's over, I can sigh again—yeah_

Adam stands and grips at his hair before pacing into the kitchen and throwing the door of the refrigerator wide open. Where the hell did all this beer come from?

_Why try to stay sober when I'm dying here_

He subsequently chugs down a bottle hard enough to rupture his liver and throws it violently into the trash to reach for another.

_And I am aware now_

_Of how everything's gonna be fine one day_

_Too late, I'm in hell_

_I am prepared now, seems everyone's gonna be fine_

_One day too late; just as well_

Beer after beer after beer—silly fucking him for filling up his fridge with all this goddamn booze. It isn't even all the same brand, just whatever was closest to his hand while buying a pack of smokes. Bud, Keystone, Miller, Corona, Sam Adam's, and a lonely single of Guinness. Some of it makes him gag, some of it tastes like piss, but it's there so he might as well drink up. After six beers he grabs two more in hand and stumbles clumsily out into his living room with glazed eyes glaring daggers at the television that has moved on to bigger and better things than him.

_And I'm not scared now_

_I must assure you_

If there's anything he hates more than being a huge news story, it's being a footnote.

_You're never gonna get away_

If there's anything he hates more than having lived an incident, it's being reminded of it.

_And I'm not scared now_

_And I'm not scared now_

_No…_

Two more hours, the sun's gone down, the more his stomach fills the easier drinking becomes. He might as well be drinking salt water—his thirst is never slaked. Alcohol poisoning has to be a joke. He believes concretely that he would throw up before he drank enough to kill himself. That, however, is only a small afterthought halfway through his eighth bottle. The images in his head are getting blurrier and blurrier. Fuck is the only word that processes through the clouds in his head coherently. Fuck the reporters and fuck the TV. Fuck the rumors, fuck the ever-absorbent public. Fuck the Chevron attendee that gives him queer looks every time he buys a carton of cigarettes. _Fuck Lawrence_ _Gordon_. They can all say whatever they want about him. None of them are even close. None of them have a fucking clue. He is _fine_.

_I am aware now_

_Of how everything's gonna be fine one day_

_Too late, I'm in hell_

_I am prepared now, seems everyone's gonna be fine_

_One day too late; just as well_

Cigarettes. Adam down's the last swig of beer and pretends he doesn't want to vomit. He's been neglecting his best loved habit for too long. Haphazardly dropping his empty bottle onto the carpet, he falls towards his coffee table and ends up on his knees digging through a pile of cartons. Too many fall to the floor and he ends up with nothing. He didn't go out today. He didn't go out yesterday. In fact the only pack of cigarettes he has left are the ones he bought earlier today that are currently sitting on a side table, but he doesn't remember that. Thinking there are still a few packs in his room, he wanders falteringly down a hallway that has grown by a mile since he last traversed it. He pointedly ignores the figure he imagines standing in his closet with a strange, gritty boar mask staring out at him as he pulls by. Twelve feet trail behind him every time he takes a step. A strange, shadowy handprint lingers on the wall every time he rests his hand against it for support. Every sound echoes.

He has no idea if he's moving backwards or forwards so he grips onto the nightstand hard to regain balance. The drawer spills open when he jerks at it. Condoms, Rolaids, painkillers, gum. A receipt for a book he doesn't remember buying. No smokes. He flips over his ashtray as though it's betrayed him. How could this have happened? If there was one thing he could always guarantee himself to find in this apartment—above food, above toothpaste, above toilet paper—it was cigarettes. He can't think anymore. He holds his hands to his eyes and tries to rub the blur from them, but his head—or perhaps the room—keeps turning around and around.

Adam lurches on his way back to the kitchen, angry that his body refuses to cooperate with his bipedal nature. By the time he makes it to his living room he can't remember if he has a reason for being here or if he's just looking for a place to pass out. He grabs a bottle that he neglected to empty and takes a clumsy drink, as by now his hands are already shaking with the lack of nicotine. It streams off his chin and makes him choke, so he puts it down, blinking hard to maintain his vision. _For fuck's sake…why doesn't Marlboro deliver? I just…I just need…someone to…designated…driver… _He thinks drunkenly. The phone is suddenly in his hands and he's cradling it to his shoulder awkwardly for seemingly no reason. The realization dawns on him and he laughs at himself stupidly as he grabs his beer again and staggers to a side table. The wall collides with him as he does so. That's a good idea. He'll tell Lawrence to fuck off while his inhibitions are down. That way he won't have to worry so much about it. It will be over. He grabs an untouched white card off of its surface and translates the numbers desperately into the phone like he's calling 911.

_I am prepared now_

_Seems everything's gonna be fine for me_

_For me, for myself_

The number dials and the phone rings. Adam takes a drink. Suddenly there's an answer from the other side. "Hello?"

Adam swaggers.

_For me, for me, for myself_

_For me, for me, for myself_

There's a pause and the tone changes. "Is someone there? Who is this?

_I am prepared now for myself_

"I'll do it!" Adam snaps.

"What?"

"I said…" Adam suddenly can't finish his sentence as his eyes land on an unopened carton of cigarettes sitting on the table next to the card. "Son of a bitch…" His knee twists and he collapses to the floor face first like a tone of bricks, out cold.

"Hello? Hello?"

_I am prepared now and I am fine…_

"…A…Adam?"

_Again_

* * *

Song: "Fine Again" _by _Seether


End file.
